What Makes A Friend
by J9
Summary: Nick deals with the memories that "Overload" brought up, with a little help from a friend


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Title: What Makes A Friend  
**Author:** Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing**: Catherine/Nick friendship  
**Spoilers:** _Overload_  
**Feedback:** Makes my day  
**Disclaimer:** If it was in the show, it's not mine.  
**Archive:** At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/csi/csific.htm) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.  
**Summary:** Nick deals with his memories, with help from a friend.

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I'm lost in a world of my own when I slam my locker door closed, wanting nothing more than to escape the crime lab, put some distance between me and this place. It's not an experience that I normally have; as a matter of fact, just the opposite. I love coming into work, I love working on a new case, I love piecing together the clues and finding the answer to whatever puzzle I'm chasing this week. 

Today though, all I want to do is get out of here, go home, take a long hot shower and sleep for a week. 

Well, everything except that last part. Because when I do sleep, and make no mistake, it's going to be a long time before I drop off tonight, I know exactly what I'm going to see in my dreams. 

I'm going to be back in our house in Dallas, nine years old, all snug in my bed, and I'm going to remember that bedroom door opening, light slowly pouring into the room, filling it up, back-lighting the silhouette of my last minute replacement babysitter. 

My mind fills in the rest of what will be shown to me in Technicolor dreams later on tonight, and my stomach heaves. I swallow hard, knowing that there's nothing left to come up - after I left the interrogation of Dr Sapien and Mrs Buckley, the restroom was my first port of call, and it took a long time for me to stop heaving, even longer for me to pull myself together enough to walk back here, to get myself ready to go home. 

But now I am ready, the clang of metal reverberating through the empty room, and I turn ready to finally make my escape. It's not to be however, and I jump when I see an all too familiar figure standing there, obviously waiting for me to notice her. 

"Jesus Catherine, you scared the crap out of me," I tell her, surprised that my voice can be so normal after the couple of days that I've had, surprised that she doesn't come back with a flip reply. Instead, she just stares at me, and I know instinctively what's coming next. 

"I didn't mean to," she tells me, looking me up and down. "You ok Nicky?"

I'm not of course. I'm as far from ok as I've been in quite some time, but I don't tell her that. She's got more than enough on her plate without adding worries about me. So I fashion a smile as best as I can and tell her, "I'm fine Catherine." There's a long-suffering quality to my voice, and she hears it, and a ghost of a smile flits across her lips. 

"I know _that_," she tells me, a twinkle in her eyes, one shoulder rising quickly in a sassy hug. "But you left the interrogation in a hurry. I was worried about you."

I take a step closer to her, repeating the lie that I've already told her. "I'm fine Catherine."

She holds my gaze for a long moment, and then seems to make a decision, holding up her hands and shaking her head in semi-defeat. "Ok, ok…forget I asked." Her gaze then falls to the jacket over my arm, to my closed locker before going back to my face. "You going home now?"

I nod. "I've gotta get out of here," is all I say, and it's the most honest I've been with her since we started this whole conversation. 

"How about you come back to my place? I'm gonna cook spaghetti for Lindsey and me, there'll be more than enough for three."

Against all odds, a smile comes to my face, and I find myself fighting back a chuckle. "Cath, you don't have to take care of me," I tell her. "Go spend time with your kid."

She shrugs again, and there's no trace of amusement on her face this time. "I know that Nick," she says quietly, seriously, more serious than I'm used to hearing her be. That realisation must show on my face, because she grins brightly, falsely, shrugs again. "What, I can't offer you a home cooked meal? You look like you're fading off the face of the earth for God's sake!"

That does make me laugh, because Lord knows, I eat out more than I cook, and the amount of junk food I consume means that fading off the face of the earth is the least of my worries. I know I should let her spend some time with Lindsey, after all they don't get to spend a lot of quality time together. However, I also know that she's genuinely worried about me after my revelation earlier, and no matter how often I tell her that I'm fine, that she shouldn't worry, telling Catherine Willows not to worry about her friends is like asking the sun not to shine. It just ain't gonna happen. With that in mind, I shrug. "Spaghetti sounds good," I tell her. "Just who's cooking, you or Linse?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Are you insinuating something about my cooking?" 

"Never," I tell her, stepping around her, and not coincidentally, away from her. "Just want to make sure I've got the hospital on speed dial…"

There's an exclamation of mingled disgust and surprise from her, then a laugh, and we're both smiling as we walk in silence down the halls of the CSI lab. I walk her to her car, then follow her home. By the time I get there, the babysitter is already leaving, holding the door open for me as she walks out and I walk in, and I repress a shudder as I see her go, the very word stirring up bad memories in me. It's strange - there are whole days that go by that I don't think about it at all, others when it seems like it was a bad dream, even something that happened to somebody else, something I saw on television, or read about someplace. There are other times, like today, like now, when I can remember everything in minute detail. 

The sound of the door opening. 

Screwing up my eyes against the sudden light. 

The sound of footsteps crossing the room. 

How scared I was.

How I wanted to cry for my mother, but I didn't, not until she'd left. 

The shame I felt. As if I'd done something wrong. Something dirty. 

My stomach heaves again, and I'm fighting the urge to be sick when a seven year old ball of blonde innocence and energy runs up to me, hurling her arms around me in a huge hug. She's chattering away a mile a minute, her mother's daughter to be sure, but I can't make out the words over the roaring in my ears, can scarcely see her through the stinging tears in my eyes, and the world doesn't come into focus until I see Catherine staring at us from across the room. 

Her eyes widen with some emotion that I can't categorise, I'm too busy trying to sort out my own, and she crosses the room in a couple of strides, settling her hands on Lindsey's shoulders. She says something about going to play in her room, that she'll yell when dinner is ready, and Lindsey pouts, then looks from Catherine to me, and does what she's told without another word. 

Once she's gone, Catherine looks up at me, and I can see the emotion in her face now - plain and simple worry. "Are you ok?" she asks, the same question that she asked in the locker room. 

I give her the same answer. "I'm fine." The only difference is, this time, it's uttered in a whisper, and I can feel tears rising up in my throat, in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. 

She breathes in sharply, whispering, "Nicky…" then she steps forward, pulling me into her arms. I hold still for a second, then I hold on to her for dear life, wrapping my arms around her and burying my head in her shoulder. Hot tears fall down my cheeks, into her blouse, but she doesn't pull away, doesn't move. One hand cups the back of my head, the other rubs up and down my back, and she's muttering words that I can't quite make out, but if the intended effect is to calm me down, then it's working. 

In time, I don't know how long it takes, my sobs subside, and I pull myself together, straightening up, rubbing my eyes self-consciously. "I'm sorry," I whisper, looking down at the carpet, anywhere but at her. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for." The fierce tone in which those words are uttered makes me look up in surprise, to see anger burning in her eyes, her jaw set firmly. "Nothing," she repeats. "Do you hear me Nick?" I nod, speechless, and she lays a hand on my upper arm, squeezing it gently. "This was not your fault."

"I know that," I tell her, and get a squeeze of the arm again in response. 

"Do you?" is her only verbal answer, and I'm not quite sure what I should say to that. 

"I never told anyone," is what I finally come up with, and it's not even consciously that I say those words. They're just out there, and I can't help it. "She told me that I shouldn't… that it had to be our secret…but I knew that it was wrong…" My throat closes over momentarily, and I swallow to clear it. "My mom was never able to work out why I hated it when she went out at night after that, why I never wanted anyone but my sisters to sit for me…I just wanted her to make it all better…"

"You were just a little boy Nick," Catherine tells me, her words breaking into my thoughts. "There was nothing you could have done."

"I know that." My voice is thick with tears again. "It's just…" I can't find any more words, and her hands slides down my arm, her fingers entwining with mine. Her skin is warm while mine is freezing cold, and the warmth seems to travel from her to me, filling that side of my body, beginning the long thawing out process. 

"It's not all that makes a person Nick," she whispers, and I frown in confusion, not understanding. "When you told me," she elaborates. "In the hallway…you said…'It's what makes a person I guess.'" She takes a deep breath, laying her other hand over our joined ones, patting it once, then leaving it there. "That's not true Nicky. You're a good man, with a good heart. And you're one of the best friends I've ever had." One single tear falls down her cheek as she speaks, and I use my free hand to brush it away, hating that she's crying over me. I've seen her cry over kids, over Eddie, over cases that have gotten her down. I never wanted to be one of the people who made her cry. My hand lingers on her cheek, the soft skin there, warmth travelling through the other side of my body from the contact, and she gives me a sheepish smile. "It's not all that makes a person Nicky," she says again, her blue eyes meeting mine, and I nod, not saying anything, not able to. Instead, I pull her into another hug, this time, with her head resting on my shoulder, my cheek pressed against her hair. And once again, I don't know how long we stand there like that, but I'm not thinking anymore about the past, and what makes a person. I'm thinking about the present, and about what makes a friend. 


End file.
